


awry

by Drbwho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-14 08:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 20,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4558431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drbwho/pseuds/Drbwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i><b>“One feather is of no use to me, I must have the whole bird.”</b></i><br/>-Jacob Grimm</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**Guilty.**_ The word rang out into open hall, echoing up into the high ceiling.

It reached every ear in the room; the hundreds that were standing there would all bear witness to the sentence. The sound seemed to touch her own ears last, even as she stood closest to the figure making the judgment. The new king, the young boy with the blonde hair and cruel smile, looked directly at her, fiddling with the new crown on his head as if to flaunt the thing.

Not a fortnight before, that same intricate metal had graced her father’s head. He had been a just ruler, a kind but fair man. But he could govern no longer; he was dead, resting forevermore in the crypts that held her ancestors. And she would be gone as well soon; locked away in the high tower of their fortress home. She was the poisoner, after all; the patricidal girl hungry for a claim to power.

The new king’s mother had made the harsh accusations as soon as they discovered the man’s cold body; _surely it was the daughter!_ He trusted to no else; none but her. And so it had been decided that it was her hand that dropped the lethal fluid into his evening wine; she was the one to bring it to him each night before he slept…who else could it have been?

Her head hung in defeat as she was pulled away from the podium, arms linked by chains, chains held by a pair of armoured knights. Some of the common folk threw garbage as her feet were guided through the crowd. She was pummelled with apple cores and chunks of dry dirt until their hands were quite empty; the guards that escorted her made sure to take their time, waiting until there was nothing left to throw.

They had all loved their king.

 

* * *

 

Not long after the forced relocation, her new, young monarch stopped journeying to the tower. The arrest of his daily visitations disconcerted her more than captivity itself, unsure if it was disinterest or mere laziness that halted his lengthy climb to where she was kept. Perhaps it was a test, the girl reasoned, a trick to evaluate just how patient she could be. A final assessment before she rose to a queenly status. She had endless time to think on it, locked away without a book between her hands or an instrument to play. Her only comforts, her only distractions, were the stray pieces of hay that stuck haphazardly out from her bed and the occasional bird that would perch on the stony tower opening.

The guard standing just outside the thick wooden door never spoke to her. She wasn’t entirely sure his ears would pick up her soft words anyway, so thick was the barrier between them. Screaming to gain attention had not yet crossed the girl’s mind; she dreamed of freedom instead. In the evenings, just before sleep took her, thoughts would surface of the boy king repealing the hasty sentence and carrying her down the winding steps, leading her back to his side. In this way she was able to fall asleep.

She had a window to look through, at least. Tall and thin, though wide enough peer outside with shoulders slightly inverted. The opening gave her half a day of light but still managed to keep the rain and wind at bay. Eventually, when time crept onward and fear began to take hold around the edges of her temples, she would consider jumping through it. Behind hazy blue eyes an addled mind would see herself falling and falling until she connected with the hard, green pasture below. One day, sooner than she might have thought, the leap would seem like a comfortable alternative to imprisonment.

 

* * *

 

On that same evening in the near future when she would consider ending her life, another pair of eyes would catch a fleeting glimpse of her desperation. Before the moon would have a chance to reach it’s peak, those green eyes and deft fingers would already have hastened into action. Quickly and oh so carefully he worked with a tilt of a smile lining his face. The man was nothing if not an opportunist.

 

* * *

 

Her eyes flew open one morning, before the sun had fully crept into view. An unfamiliar noise, not the scratching claws of scurrying rats under the hay bed in which she slept, nor the distant sounds of animals and people a world below her. It was a gentle rapping, knuckles on the wooden entrance to her cell.

Not the guards, for they didn’t knock. And certainly not the king, for he never visited. Who then, what poor soul would be wandering the high tower at the break of dawn?

Lifting herself from supine she ran fingers through loose, knotted tendrils. She wore the same garment sleeping and waking; an ill-fitting, thick grey shift. Dirty hands smoothed the scratchy fabric down just the same, attempting to look marginally more presentable. Even stored away without any companions she could not rid herself of her courtesies.

She tried to speak an invitation, but a rasping cough expelled instead. Her throat was tight from lack of use; when was it she last had need of words spoken aloud? She coughed and cleared several times over, palm and fingers caressing the muscles woven around her neck to expedite her cause.

“Please, come in.” She was unable to conceal the confusion on her face at the man’s entrance. He would be recognisable to anyone in the kingdom, lord or peasant; his black cloak and hood indicated his status as adviser. He had a genial smile on his face, but she saw, as she remembered seeing in court so many times before, his eyes remained quite unchanged.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **"Alas, poor child, whither thou hast come? Thou art in a murderer's den."**_  
>  -The Robber Bridegroom

Why was he visiting? He did not seem to be the sort of man to soil his boots on the dirty cell floor. But he didn’t speak; the man let silence reign as blue eyes watched him in confusion. Her throat was growing stronger, the unused vocal muscles recovering as she addressed him. “Littlefinger?”

The man nodded, lifting his hands to bring his hood down entirely. The door closed behind him without his aid, as if an invisible hand guided it for him. And then they were alone, and what a strange sort of alone it was. She found a comfort in his presence, in anyone’s presence, despite the shadows of rumours she’d heard about the cloaked figure before her.

And of course the girl would express her gratitude. She stood from her messy bed, legs bending and arms taking the stained slip of a dress in a curtsey. “Thank you for you visit. I’m afraid I have no food or drink to offer my guest.”

 _Oh,_ and how taken aback she was at his amused smile, his breath of a laugh. He took a step toward her, and another until he was near enough to speak, nearly a whisper. “Your company is all I require. How are you fairing?”

“Well enough.” She strained a smile, anything to hide her misery from the only visitor in so long. “The birds are lovely, and I can see the mountains from so high…” and that was it. She could think of nothing else to say, no further lie about her prison.

His smirk turned into a sad smile then, and he reached to hold her shoulder in comfort. The girl nearly recoiled from the touch, but remembered herself just in time. She should be grateful for the conversation. His thumb brushed her bare collarbone, and she was suddenly so aware of how immodestly the shift was cut. “What can I do to ease your suffering, child?”

Would he tell the King, if she told him her troubles? “Nothing, sir. I suffer not.”

The man closed the distance further, and she could see the patches of white in his dark hair, the lines of care near his eyes. How interesting; he was not as old as she’d thought. Younger than her father, surely, but much older than their current King. His mouth was thin and sure when he spoke. “You mustn't lie to me, my lady.”

Was she a lady still; could prisoners carry that title? Her stare moved away from him, down to the dress, avoiding his stare, but the man would not allow it. The hand on her shoulder moved to her chin, fingers pulling her face up to look to him. Her lips quivered as she held her tongue.

Her watched her, studying her expression and the fear that lived there. “When was the last time you cleaned yourself?” He could see well enough she had no means to bathe, and continued. “I’ll see to a basin and towel for you, and a clean dress.”

She couldn’t help but nod; the prospect of wiping the grime from her body was not something she could easily resist. He smiled back to her, pleased with her response.

For a moment they did not speak, his fingers finally left her jaw. Littlefinger reached a hand under his cloak, retrieving some small bit of fabric. It was a bright, light blue colour, as if something taken from a lady’s ball gown. It was not very long, and thinner still. He took her arm, bringing the material around her wrist and tying it there as a bracelet.

She stared at the new, odd adornment, and looked to him with narrowed eyes as her arm fell back to her side.

If he meant anything by it, he didn’t say. Instead, Littlefinger’s gaze travelled around the room, searching. When he looked to her again, he smiled. “Might I tempt you with a book, Sansa?” His eyes seemed to spark up at the temptation.

Her hands fidgeted at her stomach. A book would be such a treasure in her cage. “He says I’m not meant to have distractions.”

“He doesn’t come to see you, does he? I’m sure you are shrewd enough to find a place to conceal something small, if he should ever decide to call.”

Was this a test from the King? If so, she was proving how weak she was, but a book, _a book._ “You won’t tell?”

He chuckled, bringing his hood back up. “Oh no, my girl. We can share this secret, you and I.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning he returned before the sun rose, with a servant following behind, carrying the promised basin. In his own hand he held a cloth for her, and a clean, fresh-smelling shift. She waited until his man left before speaking.

The girl thanked him, her mouth tilting up at the man. “I am in your debt, Littlefinger.”

“Please, my lady, call me Petyr.”

“Petyr?” Was that his true name? She’d never known it, and the girl felt the shame creep in at her ignorance. “Thank you, Petyr. And Sansa, if you will.”

“Sansa.” He spoke it with an odd lilt, tasting the name on his tongue. She didn’t know what to make of it. And again, before she could think on it anymore, he produced a bit of fabric, the same colour blue, and tied it around her wrist. The last piece was hidden under her mattress, lest anyone see the contraband.

She was afraid to ask about it, afraid he wouldn’t visit if she questioned him. “Will you come again?” _Don’t be hopeful, you stupid girl. He’s simply being kind._

“If you wish it, Sansa. Of course I will.” And with that, the man was gone again. 

Perhaps if she were a little older, or wiser, she would have been wary of his stare, then, and his smirk.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **"When therefore the time was over, and the day came when the evil one was to fetch her, she washed herself clean..."**_  
>  -The Girl Without Hands

He had not visited in three days.

The first day she did not fret; he was a busy man, after all, and the title of advisor to the king held heavy obligation. Perhaps he was held in court through the night, preventing his usual pre-dawn visit.

The second day he missed their meeting she began to fidget, hands wringing as she pushed away her measly breakfast. The birds visited, however, and that pleased her. Drawn in by the small piece of floury bread she’d saved from her meal, she fed them and kept them as long as she could, cooing and tossing small crumbs onto the stone windowsill.

The third day she paced. She counted how many steps it took to walk around the tower. She numbered the grey stones lining the walls. She wondered; _have I done something wrong? Have I made him upset?_ She pulled away the loose stone behind her bed frame half a dozen times, a place she'd discovered to store his strange gifts, checking to make certain the small pieces of blue cloth were still hidden away.

If she hadn’t forgotten already how to cry, she might have. It was worse, she thought miserably, to lose a friend than to have not had one at all.

One the fourth day she did not wake before the sun as she had grown accustomed to. Instead, she slept until the light of day left waves of soft colours on the hay beneath her. That was not what stirred the girl, however. It was the brush of fingers on her warm brow that caused eyes to flit open; curious and more than a little surprised, blue regarded the owner of wandering digits.

“You came.” She could not hide the contended tone in her voice. He was sitting on the bed beside her, idly mussing her hair, and how had she stayed asleep? How long had he been waiting for her to wake?

“Of course I did.” An eyebrow raised to match the tilt of his sly mouth. He forever wore the look of a man who had a secret, a very good one, and wasn’t prepared to tell. Sometimes, despite how kind he had been, she found it unsettling. Sometimes it caused the hair behind her ears to prickle. “I promised you a book, did I not?”

Sansa could only nod as he reached under his cloak to reveal a small, leather-bound text. She sat up immediately as the item was placed in her hands. She ran her fingers through the pages reverently, skimming the long lines of words in anticipation.

“You’ll want to keep that away from prying eyes.”

“I’ll keep it safe.” Her earnest reply was one that none could question. The girl was not trained in the art of lying. Not yet. “How long may I borrow it?”

“As long as you like, only-“ He leaned closer to her, a hand settling between them on the hay. The girl was suddenly acutely aware of just how alone they were. “There is something I would like in return.”

 _What could he want from me? I have nothing to give._ “Anything.”

He made a clicking noise with his tongue, as if to chastise her. “Sweet girl, you mustn't sound so eager to please. You haven’t heard my demand.”

He was still so close; she could faintly feel his breath on her cheek. Her face and collar grew warm at his reprimand. The hand not on the bed moved toward her, taking a small strand of hair between index and thumb. He was staring intently at his workings, rolling the tendrils slowly around. She waited, watching him watching her for what seemed like days.

“I would like it very much, Sansa,” eyes left her hair and lazily lifted until the greyish-green of his met her own, “if you gave me a kiss.”

How could she refuse? He was her only companion, her only friend in the world. She closed her eyes, lips slightly pursed as she waited for him to draw near. Instead of contact the girl only heard a soft chuckle. She looked at him then, a frown forming on her face. “No, no my dear. A maiden’s kiss is not something to be taken; it is to be given.”

“But I…” She didn’t want to tell him; she’d never given a kiss before. Her king had been content to rule in all things.

“You have as long as you need. Come to me when you’re ready.” And there he sat patiently, but underneath lie a hint of expectation in his form, in his eyes. Sansa was young, but she had learned to look underneath the mask.

A small hand moved to his cloaked shoulder as an anchor. They were already close; it was nearly no movement at all before she found herself sharing his breath. His lips, no longer smiling, parted slightly to make ready for her embrace.

It was gentle, unlike her encounters with the king, and she led the dance. His mouth was warm and soft, so unlike the chilly demeanour he usually held. He did not make a motion to touch her, allowing her to dictate the brief caress of lips. And it _was_ brief; she hastened away after only a few heartbeats, her hand leaving its perch.

Before she could take another breath he was standing, making his way for the door. As he left the man pulled his hood over greying temples and spoke, clear and controlled unlike the girl on the bed. “Until tomorrow.”

“But wait-“ she murmured the words. He hadn’t given her his daily gift; her wrist was unadorned with the tied fabric that was his parting ritual. But it was too late; he was already gone. The text still sat next to her and she grabbed it then, pulling it tight around her chest. She would devour the words, savour each one as if it were a long-awaiting dinner. What was one little kiss, compared to hours of pouring over a lovely novel?

Inside the book, she found the small blue cloth she thought he’d forgotten.

 

* * *

 

 

It would cross her mind later, just before she drifted into sleep, that his expectations might differ tomorrow, or the next day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _"Then she was silent, but the desire in her heart was not stilled, but gnawed there and tormented her, and let her have no rest."_**  
>  -Our Lady's Child

Days grew longer, and shorter. Sansa had no real way to count the exact number of days that went by. The sun grew hotter, however, and then the air went cold again, and so she knew some great span of time had passed. A year, more or less, she decided when a small pile of furs was gifted to her by the hooded man one day. Winter had just ended when she was first caged in the tower, and winter had now come again. 

Snow fell on the edges of her window, and the birds did not come anymore, resolving to hide away from the chill, or having flown to warmer places. She did not miss them much; her company now was more favourable than the unanswering winged friends she’d made. He, unlike the animals that ventured to visit, could talk back to her when she spoke.

The man visited her most every morning, sometimes for only a brief moment to make certain she was well, and others for hours, until dawn had come and gone. On those longer occasions he would often take off the dark cloak and set it on her hay-bed, exposing a long, green coat with a high neck and a small unknown bird pinned to it. The coat was a lovely garment, fine and unstained in comparison to the dull shifts she wore, although he always made sure she was given clean ones. He would read to her, he would tell her tales he’d been told as a child. He would ask after her health and her days spent locked away. He would _listen._

They never spoke of the King, or the goings on of the castle and village beyond. It was not for lack of trying on the girl’s part; she would occasionally muster the courage to ask for news of the kingdom, but her friend would never indulge her requests. “Now isn’t the time, Sweetling.” He would speak the words kindly as he brushed stray auburn locks behind her ears, letting his fingers graze just a little too long. The hairs of the on the back of her neck would stand at the chill she felt in those moments. Something in his eyes always changed when he touched her.

And then there were the kisses, but those did not change. With each knew book, with each new gift or visit, they always parted with a kiss. He would always ask for it, and the girl would always be the one to grant it to him. She would count- _one, two, three-_ the seconds each kiss lasted, and break away no longer or shorter than the time before. And he would smile at her as he left, and it would be kind, but the girl noticed with each passing day his eyes began to contrast that smile.

Eventually, one day, the greenish-grey did not smile at all.

 

* * *

 

 

That same afternoon she stayed abed, not bothering to look out the window or eat her meal of gruel. She wondered what he truly wanted, what his purpose was with the visits. Did the king know about them, did he order his advisor to watch her and keep her occupied? She had no way of knowing, and Petyr would not speak of it. It was a miserable day that she spent thinking and thinking, opening the secret place and staring at the mass of blue fabric that now lived there. Hundreds, surely, by the look of it; each tied to her right wrist as they parted, her lips still warm with their brief kiss. Each was that same shade of blue, and the material was that of a torn up gown.

 

* * *

 

 

 

He was there again the next morning, as cordial as ever. This time he carried a particularly large tome, older and more important in appearance than the fairy tale books she’d grown accustomed to. “A history book, my sweet.” The man explained it to her before she could ask, setting the volume down to the side of the bed. “Rather dull, but important. I thought you might enjoy a challenge.”

It was true enough. She never would have complained about the gifts he provided for her, but the stories had become boring, and more than that painful, for her to read. Tales of brave knights and beautiful princesses were not as enticing now that she was a hopeless prisoner.

He cleared his throat to gain her attention. “Forgive me, Sansa, but I must take my leave early. I have much to do in preparation for-“ The man stopped himself, straightening the cloak he wore as he made ready to stand.

The girl held her breath, eyes wide. “For what, Petyr?” _Tell me, tell me anything._

He shook his head. “Never you mind, dear one. I shan't trouble you with it all.” And there was no room to argue.

He did not seem to expect a kiss, so preoccupied he was with his mistake. But the girl worried he would stop visiting, or grow bored, and so she spoke. “Your kiss…”

“Ah, yes. I nearly forgot.” Still he sat, waiting as was their norm for her to come to him, a warm smile on his face that _did not match._

The girl had an idea then, and perhaps it was more her own curiosity than anything else. A change, something new. Her mouth met his as her hand reached his shoulder, and that familiar moment came again. She counted to three, but this time she did not stop. _Four, five, six-_ and she felt the man pause, acclimating to the lengthened contact.

And then, his mouth moved against hers, lips caressing her own as she felt fingers that were not her own brushing her jaw. _Seven, eight, nine-_ and she was returning the motions he led, a clumsy back and forth on her part, but it was not unpleasant. Another second, she’d reached ten, and the girl felt a hum of approval against her. She broke away, then, abruptly and with a small gasp, afraid to look up at the man she’d kissed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _They called to her and said, who are you. But she made no answer. Come down to us, said they. We will not do you any harm. She only shook her head._**  
>  -The Six Swans

It changed after the prolonged kiss. Where once the man would ask and the girl would bestow, the dance no longer continued in the same way. Her companion would lean into her, taking that auburn hair and threading it through his long fingers, bringing his mouth to meet her parted lips. He did not wait so patiently anymore; he moved with more urgency, showing her just how to respond in kind. It was strange and new, but the girl did not find it entirely unpleasant.

On a handful of occasions they did not wait until the end of their meeting, their mouths joining as soon as he sat next to her, long moments of give and take. He was patient, always starting slow, teaching her how to move against him. He might turn his head or change their pace, whispering low words of encouragement, before capturing her lower lip in a gentle suck.

She would always end these moments quite flushed, breath heavy as he tied the fabric around her wrist. And he was always calm and composed, his form seemingly unaffected by those embraces. In contrast, her own body tingled, thrummed until well after the man had taken his leave.

 

* * *

 

 

One day, the man had a mind to take her onto his lap.

He had a sly smile on his tired face that early morning; she could see it even with her sleepy stare, still curled into her warm covering. It was earlier than his usual entrance, and the shadows under his eyes told her he must not have slept that night. Before she could speak his hood and cloak were discarded, and the girl rose to meet him, abandoning the heat of the bed. “You’re early.”

The man nodded, the smile firmly in place. When he was close enough he took her hand, cooler than her own, and he pulled her gently to him. “Shall I leave you to sleep? I can always give you your gift tomorrow…”

“No!” An urgent whisper, although she knew he was only teasing; she could see the outline of a book within the abandoned hood, and she was desperate for something new to read. “Stay, please. Will you sit?”

He kept her hand while he moved to take his seat on her bed, looking up to her as she remained standing. And then, _a tug_ , a hand on her waist, and she found herself perched on his waiting legs.

She nearly yelped, but his arm wrapped around her middle to anchor her there, one hand finding that familiar hold on her occiput, and she met his stare. Greenish eyes watched her intently, waiting to see what she would do next, an eyebrow raised.

_Was this a test?_

If it was, she mustn't disappoint him. It was not uncomfortable, this new position she’d been pulled into. Did he want a kiss? She didn’t know, and he wasn’t asking. Her lips were parted as she looked down to the man; she had the advantage of height now atop him. Slowly, as if afraid to hurt him, her hands found his shoulders, keeping her balanced.

Her movement seemed to please him; the smile grew just slightly, and the palm at the back of her head gently pressed, urging her toward him. At first she thought it was her mouth he wanted, but soon enough she saw her mistake. His head shifted to the side, arm on her waist tightening as he found her neck instead.

Her neck! Blue eyes closed as he pressed soft kisses to the sensitive pale found below her jaw. She didn’t notice her neck craning, an unconscious decision to expand the column, to allow him more. He swept along the elongated canvass, taking advantage of the lengthened expanse. She felt the hum against her, and the girl could not help a contented sigh when his mouth opened against her, leaving a wet trail along her flesh.

“You’re so warm.” The man murmured the words against her skin, and Sansa clung to his shoulder, attempting to even out her breathing.

But this wasn’t right; she was promised to the king. What if he needed her? She pulled away from him, still seated on his lap, her palms pushing his chest away. “You can’t. _You mustn’t._ ”

If he was deterred by her rejection he did not show it. “And why mustn't I, my lady?” That smirk lived on his face still, his fingers tapping against the small of her waist. Oh, and what a distraction those digits were; she could not deny she enjoyed his attentions.

“The King.” Her tone was firmer now to combat his lack of seriousness on the matter. “We’re to be married, when I am free.”

How quickly that smile left him then, transforming into something sad. He looked older, more worn when his eyes did not possess that glint, when his lips did not curl upward. His fingers ceased their tap-tapping, instead moving up to her jaw in a soft caress. “My sweet girl, I forget you are so alone here. You have no knowledge of the world below.”

The girl left his lap, backing away from his fingers, his touch. Standing, looking down to him, she trembled as she made her demand. Her voice was as queenly as it had ever been. “Tell me.” But a part of her knew. She’d been a fool to harbour that delusion, that fantasy. She ought to have known better.

The words seemed bitter on his tongue. “The King is already married.”

_No. Please no_. “How long?”

His words, his posture, spoke of pity when he rose to meet her. He picked up his cloak, reaching in one of the deep pockets to collect a book and set it down on the bed. Her only friend pulled the garment over himself as he answered her. “The week after you were sent here.”

If she had any tears left, she might have cried.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  __ **He who tries to steal my singing, soaring lark, he cried, will I devour.**  
>  -The Singing, Soaring Lark

She was surprised to see him again that evening.

The girl was curled up on her tiny bed, her mind quite occupied. What would she do? Was she to remained trapped in her tower until the end of her life, until cares formed on her now-youthful eyes, until her bones creaked and her spine curved with the passing of time? Or would the boy remember her, perhaps see the error in his ways, marry her to a handsome boy near to her age?

She laughed; a quiet, breathy sound. There would be no happy ending for her, not ever.

Sansa hadn’t heard the door open, nor had her eyes watched him come in. Her back was turned to the door; the wall seemed to provide better company in her misery, and he never came to visit in the evening anyway. And so the hand on her shoulder startled her, the girl’s body jerked around to discover no intruder, just the king’s advisor, just Petyr.

In his other hand was a fine plate, succulent meat and fresh vegetables nearly spilled off the edges. A warm smile on his face, his hand still on her shoulder, and she could recall his mouth on her neck, his arms wrapped around her. She could feel her cheeks burn.

The girl did not sit up, did not make a move at all, and so the man spoke. “I brought you a gift. I thought you might be hungry, my lady, and the porridge must be growing dull for you.” 

She stared at the plate, her mouth watering at the sight of it, but inside her abdomen twisted and turned. The hurt of being abandoned, and the frustration of her only friend not giving her the truth, made eating anything he offered an impossibility. The girl turned her back to him, her knees coming up to her chest, a refusal.

She could hear his words behind her. He almost sounded sad. “Will you not eat?”

When she did not answer she heard the sound of the plate being set atop the small table to her side. And then she heard the man leave.

Next to the plate, she saw much later, was a blue piece of fabric.

 

* * *

 

 

It was the same the next day, and the next. He brought her food and she left the plates entirely untouched. Her stomach growled, but she did not give into it. The girl did not know what her goal was, and she feared the man would give up on the task before she realised what she wanted. Instead, she picked at her daily gruel, all the while staring at the potatoes, the meat, on the table.

 

* * *

 

 

On the fourth day she heard a commotion from her high window. The girl raced to the edge to see just what the fuss was about, only to discover a band of angry men running toward the castle. They had their own swords, not as fine as the ones granted to the guards, but they drew blood well enough, she saw.

 

* * *

 

 

Late in the evening she heard the door open. She did not turn around to look at him when she spoke, her words soft. “There was a fight down below this morning, did you see?”

“I heard tell of it, yes. A small thing, of no concern to you. I am sorry you had to see it.” He said it, but he did not sound truly sorry. Even without seeing his eyes she could tell, and she wondered if anyone else noticed that very often his voice and his eyes did not match. 

The girl chose her words carefully. “There never used to be battles in the yard.”

The man sighed, setting the plate again on the table before she felt the weight of him on her bed. “Our King Joffrey is not as loved as your father once was.”

There were few things that would have caused her to turn to face him; those words led her body to curve until she was on her back, watching him. Her hands twined against her stomach as she looked up, eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

He placed his hand atop her joined fingers, some measure of comfort, she decided. “I daresay you might be better off up here, safe in the tower, little one.”

This was the closest he'd come to giving her news, and the girl found herself desperate for information. “Tell me more.”

He squeezed her fingers lightly. “First you must eat.” He smiled, kind and friendly, but it unsettled her.

“I’m not hungry.” She slid her hands from under his, an attempt to disconnect from him. Instead, his palm fell to her stomach, where her own fingers had been settled. He kept it there, his thumb giving a small stroke just above her navel. The girl did not know what to do. 

“Of course you are, my stubborn girl.” He looked amused then, as if he’d expected her rejection. His hand left her, and he reached into the cloak at his side, pulling out a little cake, sugar lightly sprinkled on the top. It looked so sweet, _so enticing_ , her eyes widened at the sight of it. “Might I tempt you with a treat to whet your appetite?”

She sat up, face to face with the man offering a gift she was hesitant to refuse. Where would he have found such a rare delight? Sansa moved her hand to reach for it, but his fingers were already lifting the small piece to her mouth. Slowly, with no small amount of trepidation, she took a bite, the flavour rushing into her mouth. When had she last had something so delicious, so wonderful? A soft moan escaped her, and she could feel her cheeks going red at the noise.

“It’s quite alright, my dear. It is a rarity to have something so lovely, is it not?” His eyes bored into her, and she couldn’t quite understand his meaning. It did not stop her from taking another bite, however, and another and another, until there was naught left but lingering crumbs on his fingers. Petyr took his thumb and index into his mouth, licking off the remaining sweetness there.

Sansa stilled, then, tensing as shame swept through her. She’d forgotten herself; she’d been rude to him. “I’m terribly sorry, Petyr….I didn’t offer you any.”

The girl did not miss it; his eyes darkened just a little, around the edges. “I am not so fond of desserts, my dear. I find my pleasure in other ways.” The man moved forward an inch or two. “Although I wonder if your lips have kept the taste. Might I find out?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **...lie down there in the shade and sleep, and I will soon build the castle for you. If it would be a pleasure to you, you can live in it yourself.**_  
>  -The True Sweetheart

She nodded, a slow tilt of her head as he leaned in, capturing her lips with his own. Her eyes closed as she responded to his familiar movements. She’d grown used to it, and a part of her knew she anticipated the brief moments shared between them. Her body no longer tensed at his touch; it had become almost relaxing, almost a comfort. And there was another feeling there as well, although Sansa could not be sure what exactly what it was; her skin prickled and tingled in some unknown sensation. She almost asked him once, but stopped herself before she could utter the words; he would think she was being foolish.

The girl felt his fingers sliding along her jaw, his thumb coming to rest on her chin. For a few heartbeats he simply kept it there, but after a time he pressed that digit downward, using it to open her mouth. A breath from her and she felt something warm and wet brushing the opened space between her lips. _His tongue_ , his tongue was dipping into her mouth, sliding forward.

Sansa’s eyes flew open, her body pulling away from him, spine straightening. His hand dropped as he watched her part from him, and were his eyes darker, then? When she found her voice the words were a harsh whisper. “What are you doing?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Giving you a kiss, of course.”

“That wasn’t a kiss.” It was something different, something strange. Her arm lifted to wipe the lingering wetness from her lower lip, and the adviser to the King smiled an odd smile.

The man was entirely nonplussed by her argument. “It was exactly what I said it was, I assure you.”

She shook her head firmly, confident in her words. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” No matter that she knew so little about how affection was given or received, and no matter that the only other person to kiss her was their young, inexperienced King.

“So, because you’ve never heard of it then it surely couldn’t be true?” He chuckled, one hand moving to take her own. “That seems a silly notion, don’t you think?”

The longer she considered it the more her thoughts shifted. Perhaps it _was_ a silly notion, perhaps he had the right of it. His fingers grazed the sensitive skin of her palm, and she allowed the touch, enjoying the feeling.

He used that hand to pull her near again, until she could feel his steady breath against her cheeks. “Why don’t you let me show you?” And closer still he crept, his voice low in the silent room. “Open your mouth, my girl.”

Her eyes closed once more, unable to keep his gaze as her lips parted for him. First, she simply felt a chaste press as he eased her into the meeting. His tongue came next, a gentle glide inward, and what an odd sensation it was, although it was not unpleasant. A few moments and he grew more eager, exploring her, brushing against her own tongue, as if coaxing it to join in the dance. She did, a tentative slide along that smooth, unfamiliar muscle, and man hummed his approval against her, his hand lifting, settling along her ribcage.

It was the sugar making her dizzy, she reasoned, not the man’s mouth on hers. Her face was warm, her heart at a racing pace, body alight with the newness of their connection. She wondered, with the shyness of a girl so naive, what other things the man could teach her. What other things was she ignorant of?

She did not know how long it lasted; time grew foggy when he was near. He was first to pull away, his fingers brushing the hair that had fallen by her face. His other hand still rested at her side, gently stroking her shift. “Now then, do you believe me?”

She was nearly breathless in that moment; her response was a tiny nod, and the man seemed so pleased by it.

“It felt good, didn’t it, Sansa?”

Another nod, her eyes finding the mattress in place of his own stare. There was shame creeping in, and she was not quite sure why. He was simply being kind, wasn't he?

Her averted eyes did not seem to bother him; he continued, as his fingers moved up a rib, closer now to her chest. “It makes me glad to know I can make you feel good, my darling girl. You have so little, up here, all alone…” Another rib higher, and the man was feeling just below her breast.

She looked up to him, and he was no longer focused on her face; he was watching his hand, watching his wrist turn as he continued his upward journey, until the back of his hand lightly grazed her breast. She could feel it through the shift, and the girl took in a sharp breath. She might have said his name, a question, but she couldn’t be sure.

It did not linger; his hand was away from her before she could say anything else.

 

* * *

 

 

When he next visited he granted her a warm smile when he saw the plate of food was entirely devoured. He did not stay for long, and he made no move to touch or kiss her. Their meeting was brief, he had much work to do, he said. The man did not elaborate as he handed her another book, this one smaller. The blue fabric stuck out of it like a bookmark. She still hadn’t finished the last tome; the reading was fascinating but dry, and Sansa had to reread passages several times over to understand what was happening. This book, she decided, would be a nice break from the other.

When he left she opened the first page, glancing at the blue material rested inside.

She frowned. He hadn’t kissed her. How strange, that she found herself missing it. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **When the princess heard that, she turned pale and nearly fell down with terror, for the little tailor had guessed her riddle, and she had firmly believed that no man on earth could discover it. When her courage returned she said, "You have not won me yet by that."**_  
>  -The Cunning Little Tailor

It was much of the same for a time, with Sansa spending her afternoons reading from the histories he gave her, listening to the growing sounds of discord from off in the distance. She would keep herself busy enough, no longer as miserable as she once had been. The mornings were different of course, so often spent in the company of the King’s advisor. The pile of blue fabric could scarcely fit into her hiding place anymore, but the girl still found herself unable to ask the man why, lest he stop giving the gifts entirely.

She’d found he was more candid, more willing to speak to her when she was close to him, when she allowed his fingers to brush along the small of her waist, when she gave him access to her neck. Sometimes he moved a little lower, and the girl didn’t entirely mind it. His mouth had taken to sweeping along her collarbone, darting a tongue out to taste her skin, if she happened to be perched upon his lap.

And that was the place in which she found herself one day, when her curiosity overtook any worry she had. She could not deny she was growing more and more content with his presence. Sansa could hardly remember that unease she’d felt at their first meeting. This was her kind, thoughtful friend, she told herself. He brought her clean shifts, books to read, more appetising food than the sludge she’d been given. He cared for her, didn’t he?

 _He must,_ she reasoned. _What else could he want?_

It was that thought that spurred the words on, her hands settled at his chest. “There was more fighting today.”

One of his arms was curled around her waist, holding her in place, but his other moved upward, fingers running through her auburn tendrils. “I know, my girl.”

“Why do they hate the King? Why do they wish to fight us?” _Us_ , the kingdom. Even in a prison, even being cast aside she longed to be down below with the rest of them. She simply wanted to belong again.

“These things happen when new rulers are put in place.” His words were patient, as if explaining to a child.

She paused, wondering if she could pry more from him. He seemed agreeable enough, and so pressed further. “Have you seen it happen? Before now?”

He sighed then, not quite a weary sort of sound, before answering. ”I have done my duty for a great while, Sansa. I have watched many kings come and go.” There was no anger in his voice, but there was something else. Sansa did not want to linger on what that was; it seemed dark, and not meant for her. She did not want it near her.

Still, that inchoate need for more, for knowledge, goaded her to continue. “Do you think Joffrey is a good king? Is he better than my father was?”

He took a moment before he smiled and spoke. “Who am I to say which man is most deserving of the throne?” His kissed her nose, something kind despite that lingering _something_ in his voice. “I do what I am tasked to do, my sweet, and nothing else. I advise.”

“What do you advise on?”

“All manner of things.” He wanted to leave it there, she knew; his mouth was hovering near hers then, his eyes watching her with that strange hunger. This time, he did not need to ask for her mouth to be opened. The girl gave it to him willingly, finding the feeling more pleasant than she dared admit to him.

They kissed for a long while, longer than Sansa had allowed him in the past. Perhaps it was her excitement of receiving answers that made her eager to please him, her mouth meeting his with equal fervour. His touch strayed from her waist, finding her back, her ribs, her neck, and the girl was finding herself quite lost in it all.

And when his hand grazed her chest she did not pull from him; perhaps it had been an accident, and surely his hand would move away. But it didn’t; his palm felt along one of her breasts, a gentle cupping, and he kept it there. She thought back to the first time she’d opened her mouth to him, when he had brushed against her, and to the look in his darkened eyes, and she tensed.

Her mouth left his, inching away from his face, her brows furrowed. She was having difficulty catching her breath, and she wasn't certain if it was their kiss that had forced the air out of her, or his hand, still indecently placed. Time passed, just how much she did not know, the two of them still and staring. Her heartbeat did not slow, and his hand was there, unmoving.

Two fingers shifted to brush along her nipple, bringing it to a peak, and the girl took in a sharp breath. His eyebrow raised at her, his lips still parted, but his eyes never left her own. And he knew, she could tell by the way his lips tilted up, the way he watched her, that she was enjoying the feeling. The gooseflesh on her arms could not be attributed to the cold; she wasn’t chilly. That shiver was his alone, a gift from her.

The next part was a blur; his other hand was splayed along he small of her back, and it pressed, guiding her closer. His palm cupped her breast fully now, kneading into the soft flesh. She gasped, and with that gasp he took her mouth, and he took her noises with it. He gave her a noise of his own in return, a moan, low, as his tongue teased her.

She could have stopped him, she knew. If she would have pulled away and told him to leave he would have gone without a word. The cruel, terrible truth of it; she did not want him to go.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _Then I do not desire to have you for godfather, said the man, you deceive men and lead them astray._**  
>  -Godfather Death

On some nights, the fighting would go on until dawn.

The girl would toss and turn in fitful sleep, wishing away the noises. At first it would be clashing of metal, sword on sword, armour on armour, the battle cries ringing loud up into her tower room. For a time it would continue in that way, the soldiers full of passion, the guards alert and at the ready, but all men grow weary after a while, and those sounds were steadily replaced in her ears. The moans of the injured, the pleas for mercy or worse, for a swift death, would be all she could hear as the night grew into day. She dared not look down on them when light crept into the world; her imagination was enough.

If she would have listened a bit closer, perhaps she would have heard her father’s name on the tongues of the rebels when they rallied their men together. Of course, she did not want to listen. She wanted quiet, she wanted to read her histories and tales with only the birds and their songs to serenade her. And somewhere in a corner of her mind, hidden deep enough for her to pretend it wasn’t there, she missed him.

And so hers were tired eyes when she greeted the cloaked man that morning. An open book rested next to her on the bed, but the girl could scarcely recall what she had read; her mind was hazy with fatigue, her entire body aching for rest. She mustered a smile for him. It was not quite genuine, and perhaps he noticed; one of his eyebrows raised, and when he returned the smile it was as empty as hers.

The girl’s chest tightened.

Down below, the yelling ceased.

She made to sit up, to greet him properly, but he held his palm out to her. “Stay there; there’s no need to rise on my account.”

He took the cloak off, setting it aside. That meant he planned to stay awhile, Sansa knew, and for the first time she was disappointed; she simply wanted to sleep. Again, he noticed, he always noticed, sitting beside her and leaning down to speak softly to her. “Was the fighting keeping you awake, sweet girl?”

She nodded, her eyes flitting up to him. She curled further into her blanket, keeping the warmth in.

“Why don’t I tell you a story, then, to help you find rest?” He placed his hand on her temple, letting digits gently run through her hair.

That did not sound so bad; her mother used to tell her stories at night when she was young. Sansa nodded, angling her head toward his fingers, appreciating the feel of him.

“There was once a boy, not much older than yourself. He was no great knight or king, but he was smart, and he was in love.” His voice was low, a lulling melody to her tired frame. But her mind was still alert; it did not sound like the sort of tales Petyr liked to tell. His were normally that of political intrigue, stories of old empires and wars long ago. The man never spoke of love.

He paused for a moment, before continuing. “But there was another who wanted his true love’s favour, a brutish man twice the size of the boy. This was the sort of oaf who would not easily give away something he thought was his.”

Her eyes flitted up to him, waiting for him to continue. His fingers ran through locks as he began to speak again. “And the boy, well, his love was pure, wasn’t it? Surely if he challenged him to a duel he would emerge the victor? Have you ever heard of a tale where the villain wins?”

Sansa shook her head; she truly hadn’t.

“Neither had he. And so the match was made, and the day of the duel arrived. The boy was decked in armour, his face set, his intentions noble.” Petyr sighed, looking toward the window, his hand drifting from her temple and to his own lap. “It didn't matter, though, what his intentions were. The man sliced him up either way, making a gash straight down his middle. The boy lost, you see, and he lost his love as well.”

The girl sat up, sadness and confusion reigning over her. “What an awful story, Petyr.” She was awake now, entirely, watching him with wide eyes. “Why would you tell me such an awful story?”

“It is a cruel lesson, I know, Sansa, but an important one. Sometimes the villains win, and sometimes doing what is noble will not save you.” His tone was different, then, and she wondered if he noticed the change. There was a bitterness there, as if the taste of his own lesson was foul and unpleasant.

This story was strange, _the moment was strange_.

The man made a move to stand, to leave her there to ruminate on the tale; but there was something else on her mind, a spark, a curiosity, and she would not let it go. She placed a hand on his shoulder, an entreaty for him to stay sitting for a moment longer. When he did, the girl pulled her legs out from the blanket, rising to stand herself, until she could face him.

She stared at him for a few breaths, watching his eyes that seemed to betray nothing now. Down her gaze drifted, to his nose, his mouth, his chin, his chest…

And that was where she saw the slightest movement from him, _a tensing_. Sansa was not a fool; in fact, the girl was sometimes very clever. It did not do well to seem that way in front of her King, and so she’d pretended she was something near to simple, because Joffrey had liked her better that way. But it was a clever girl’s fingers that reached out to the coat the advisor wore. Digits unfastened the first three buttons, and the man did not move an inch. The girl pulled the fabric apart, searching for the thing she knew would be there. And it was, a scar, a scar, the wound from a long ago duel.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Then he went right on and stood still, and said to the bird, "Bird," said he then, "how beautifully you can sing. Sing me that piece again."**_  
>  _ **"No," said the bird, "I'll not sing it twice for nothing."**_  
>  -The Juniper-Tree

He did not visit.

Days and days crept by, and the girl was more miserable than before. She took to pacing again, to finding herself near to tears at the prospect of forever being trapped in a tower, all alone. Her fingertips picked at the hem of her shift until the fabric tore, until her fingers bled, waiting for a visit that would not come.

The girl had ruined it, of course she had. He’d been so kind to her, the only true friend she could boast of in her predicament. And how had she repaid him? She’d reached into him and pulled something out, something vulnerable and broken, something like herself, and she was certain the man was not pleased by it.

Then again, why had he told her a tale so close to himself? What was his goal, in the end, by befriending her? She thought of his eyes, and the way they did not align with this mouth’s emotions, and she wondered if perhaps his presence had been more ominous than she’d considered.

All of it swirled around in her head, a constant barrage, having nothing else to occupy her time save the thrice read book he’d left.

She could not deny it; Sansa missed the companionship, the delicious food he would bring, the books provided, even the silly bits of fabric. And worse still, she found herself touching her lips, remembering the softness of his own. The girl would not admit she missed that, even to herself, even at night when she tossed and turned, thinking of his hand on her breast, his mouth on her neck. No, it would not be right to miss such things.

There was one other visitor during the absence of the advisor, but this one was not so pleasant. One evening, as the sun was setting over the fields and trees off in the distance, her King paid her his first visit in years.

At first she thought it was Petyr, for she had no other guests, but she stood quickly, unable to conceal the shock on her face when she saw it was Joffrey. He was flanked on either side by loyal guards, as he always was, but he was taller, leaner, and something _more_. His posture, the set of his jaw told her his trip was not an amiable one.

He looked angry and cruel, but when the girl considered it later she thought he might have always looked that way. It was a foolish girl’s illusion; she’d had no ill feelings about her King when she was his intended. When his mouth twisted into a sadistic grin she might have ignored it, or pretended it was not so mean. She’d learned to adapt in that way early on in their engagement, until it took no effort at all. Now, now she’s had no practice for him, no preparation, and all she saw was terrible.

And it was more than terrible when he grabbed her by the hair, paying no mind to the addition of the basin or of the large tome sitting in her cell. He wouldn’t know that prisoners weren’t meant to have those things, or he did not care. Without a word to her he forced her to the window until she could see down to the gathered men below. The girl did not yell or scream; she’d learned no one would hear her. Besides, he was the King, and no one would have stopped him even if they’d wanted to.

He was pushing her into the harsh stone, silent for a moment, letting her take in the beginning of a battle, before he spoke. “I’ve half a mind to throw you down to join them.” He laughed, an awful sound that caused her stomach to drop. “How would they feel about their beacon of hope then? The last Stark, a broken, corpse. Would you like that, you stupid thing? Would you like to join your loyal band?” With each pause he jerked her hair, his nails digging into the flesh on her arm.

She was at a loss, truly, and so she tried to plead. “I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” She had discovered apologising sometimes calmed him, even if she did not know what she was sorry for.

“Of course you don’t, you empty-headed girl. Next time they attack I’ll make you suffer, I’ll make certain you understand.” With that, he let her hair go, backing away from her. He wore a look of such disdain that she did not doubt his words.

 

* * *

 

He must have heard tell of the boy King’s visit, because he found her soon enough after. She knew it was him, she knew, even as she sobbed into the bed. And she hated him, she hated her King. She would flee them all, she resolved. She would find a way.

There was no sadness in her eyes; it was all fury. She was tired of it all, tired of her prison and her weakness. She was tired of waiting for him.

“Go away.” The girl said the words, but he did not listen. When she turned to look up to him she saw no amusement there; his jaw was set, and he looked angry enough himself. Not at her, she could see; their anger was shared, and perhaps that was the reason she did not push him away when he moved to lay beside her. Lean arms wrapped around her, pressing her to his chest, the chest that carried the remnants of a horrible wound.

He was taking a risk. What if the King returned? Still, perhaps he could protect her; Joffrey often listened to him. And so she relaxed her body, still unable to admit aloud she enjoyed the comfort of him. He kissed her forehead, breathing deep into her hair, and no, she would not tell him to leave.

His voice was low when he spoke. “Sleep now, Sansa.” Her own arm found purchase around his torso, her body curling into his warmth, and she finally found the rest she’d been desperate for.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Then a voice came forth from it, and asked her, "Whence do you come, and whither are you going?" She answered, "I have lost my father's kingdom, and cannot get home again." Then a voice inside the iron stove said, "I will help you to get home again, and that indeed most swiftly, if you will promise to do what I desire of you."**_  
>  -The Iron Stove

He was still there when she awoke, his fingers softly stroking her arms in a soothing, foreign gesture. Not completely foreign, the girl supposed; her mother had often bushed her brow or arm as a method of comfort, but even in her sleepy state she knew this was very far from the same thing. She wondered when the man had fallen asleep, and how long he’d slept, and when he woke. She wondered if he’d slept at all.

Before long his form shifted closer to her; he must have sensed the change in her breathing. Her respirations had hastened, her body reacting now that she was gaining lucidity, now that she remembered who she was and where she was and who had stayed with her through the night. She ought to be thankful; Sansa would have found no sleep at all if he had not stayed, too fearful that the boy would return, but she could not find it in herself to be entirely grateful; suspicion flourished in the corners of her mind.

 _Why is he still here? And more than that, is his goal truly a noble one?_ The girl had her doubts.

He did not speak, nor did she, and after a few moments she found herself once more content to feel the warmth of him along her spine. The tension, the rapid breath was ceasing, and she began to find comfort in the slow caress of his fingertips. She could not feel his heartbeat to compare with her own, but his exhales were a constant, gentle wash along her neck, and so she knew he was calm. The tiny hairs stood up where auburn locks ended, unsure of what to do or say. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, and perhaps she could find herself dozing once more if she closed her eyes...

She did not notice at first when his hands began to wander, longer brushes gracing her skin. Indeed she was far too cozy, the heat of him providing the long-forgotten glow of a fireplace, a memory of her time before the tower was her home. Sansa could nearly pretend she was curled up in front of a small fire, the dim light of the burning wood a lulling sight. It was not until he abandoned her arm, finding purchase on her clothed waist instead, that the girl came back to her senses. He resumed his motions there, a slow brush, his breath betraying nothing while her own gave a soft hitch into the space in front of her.

As if urged on by that small sound, his mouth moved to her, opening along the slope of her neck. It was slow, as if savouring her taste like a fine meal, his teeth a faint drag as a prelude to his tongue. Before she could properly react to the change his hand moved down to loosely grasp the fabric on her thigh, pulling up and up toward her waist. _What was he doing?_ Her arms tensed, preparing to stop him, her voice readying to tell him no, but she made no movement, she made no sound.

Her limbs wouldn't cooperate, her body allowing his machinations, her conscience losing out in the battle.

Fingers that were not her own were at her stomach then, sweeping across the sensitive skin at her navel. She tensed, aware of her lower half now entirely bare, the embarrassment creeping in, the caution a cry in her mind. But strangely, she did not pull away. Was she simply afraid to, worried she would lose her only friend if she rejected him? Or was there something shameful there, a desire for him to continue; after all, it did not _feel_ like such a bad thing. Her skin tingled, her stomach, or perhaps lower than her stomach, was as warm as her face.

In truth, she did not know what she wanted. How was she expected to know? She had no mother alive to aid her, no mentor or guidance save the conversations she had with the man leaving wet kisses to her neck, humming as she felt the smile along his lips. No, the girl did not know, only that she could not help but let out a relieved sort of sigh when his digits dipped lower, past her navel and between her legs.

“That’s very good, Sansa.” His voice was muffled by her own flesh; it seemed the man was loathe to remove his mouth from her. “Yes, dear one, let me feel you.” It was a low whisper, and she nearly thought he was speaking to himself.

There were gasps next, little things she tried to conceal as his fingers twirled and pressed. And was that a moan she heard along her neck, was the man enjoying the way she started to writhe, to sing for him like a caged bird crying to be set free? She knew enough to understand that this was not the way a child was made, and so it must not be so very wrong. Even as she reasoned with herself, she knew it was not something that ought to happen between the pair of them.

Wrong or not, it was too late for the girl to ask him to stop; she didn’t want him to. He was leading her somewhere, her hips now pushing against his hand, her spine arching into his welcoming chest, into that scar she’d discovered not so very long ago. There were encouraging words on his tongue, _yes and yes and yes_ , and all reason was lost to her as she was set ablaze, her entire body shuddering when she found that blinding prize. Her mouth opened in a silent keen, his fingers slowing but not ceasing their movements, helping her through those lingering waves.


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **The little bird, too, is very unwilling to let himself be seen, because he is afraid it will cost him his life if he is caught. He steals about in the hedges, and when he is quite safe, he sometimes cries, "I am king."**_  
>  -The Willow-Wren

Sansa wished he would leave, but was having no luck with that hope. He remained, his breath at her neck, small kisses left along the slope as his hand swept up and down her thigh. There was an uncomfortable dampness between her legs, and now that she had regained most of her composure, a mortifying feeling crept over her, the shame burning along her cheeks, her heartbeat picking up that racing pace again. He must have noticed, he seemed to want to soothe her with the motions, to console her, to tell her it was not wrong.

But it _was_. It was terribly wrong. Her vision was not so hazy now that she could deny it; it loomed over her like the dark rainclouds that sometimes hung so near to her tower window. What had she done? What had she allowed him to do? Even now, even with the fear seeping into every pore on her skin, that rush of pleasure lingered inside her, pulsing down her arms and legs in tangled, vine-like waves. It threatened to coerce her into comfort, to lull her into some pleasant slumber, and worse, a part of her wanted to let it take her. 

_No_ , the girl resolved, she could not stay against him, she could not let him keep her near, in his arms. She pulled her shift down and drifted away from him, not so abruptly that it would have been terribly rude (for even in such a lewd state, even after such a crude thing had occurred, she did not wish to be impolite). His palm removed itself from her bare thigh, his body pulling back infinitesimally to allow the manoeuvre; he seemed to understand, to accommodate that hesitance. And how terrible that his simple thoughtfulness made it all the more difficult for Sansa to pull away entirely.

He tugged her shoulder, gently, coaxing her to turn to look at him. The girl didn’t want to, truthfully; she did not want him to see her after his fingers had touched the most secret places on her body, after he’d heard the shameful noises and felt the way she was frenzied against him. But she did rotate in the end, instead fixing her eyes on his clothed chest, keeping her eyes averted from his own.

Could the clever man see the fear in her eyes, then? The coiling panic when she realised just who might discover what had transpired? “He’s going to kill me.” _For this, for letting you do such things, for whatever the men below were fighting for._ “He will demand my head.” She worked with a great measure of effort to keep her inhalations even, to appear calm as her stomach turned and her mind raced. The gallows, surely, would be where she was taken next. Her first foray into the outside would now be the day she was executed. She swallowed, a worried reflex, as she continued to keep her eyes from his.

And he laughed, a soft chuckle, but why? The girl looked up, confusion surely on her face, but he only breathed an amused breath once more at her expression. “Is that your worry, little one?” He wrapped an arm around her, bringing her closer and placing a soft press of his lips to her temple. And the poor girl closed her eyes, a small part of her relieved by the kiss, her body and mind at odds between succour and rationality. “Do not fret about such a thing. The boy won’t harm a hair on your lovely head.”

Her breath stopped. _The boy_. He had the gall to call him the boy. He was their King! Others had lost their tongues for less. It forced the girl to crane her neck up to look at him, her nose brushing the long garment he wore. “How do you know?”

He smiled at her, a kind thing, but the green in his stare was more grey, and she knew she oughtn't trust him. “Because I’ve convinced him no to.” Still, he spoke with such a firm sort of resolve she could not help but be almost swayed. His fingers brushed along her spine as he continued. “You’re important, Sansa. he knows it, but he does not understand the true reason for your importance. Not yet, and perhaps not ever. He is a fool, but you know that well enough yourself, don’t you?”

Her brows furrowed. The man was speaking so vaguely it was nettling the girl, digging like nails into her skin. She was less anxious about their proximity now that she was preoccupied with the irritating manner in which he spoke of her. “What do you mean?”

His hand moved up and up, slowly, his fingers finding her hair and gently threading through the tangles. “He means to use you as a bargaining chip, or so he thinks. But you’re so much more than that, my sweet.”

“More?”

His lips tilted into a smirk, one she was becoming far too familiar with. “Oh yes, I promise you that. You're made for better things, and you will have them. I will make certain.” He moved, gently guiding her away and onto her back so he could rise. Aside from the slight imperfection of his hair he looked unaffected by their act, and Sansa wondered just what state she was in. For once, she was happy to have no looking glass, no reflection to scrutinise.

He had his cloak in hand when she finally raised her stare to meet him. “Where are you going?” Of course it was no business of hers, but something about his fingers against her, the way he had held her, gave her the boldness to ask.

“To make the kingdom ready for you, my dear one.” He leaned, just before he left, another press of his lips, this time to her cheek. His smile was gone.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _He gave her whatsoever she could possibly desire, and said, "my darling, you will certainly be happy with me, for you have everything your heart can wish for."_**  
>  -Fitcher's Bird

For a time things transpired in very much the same way. He would visit, and eventually, he would always pull her near, finding his way between her legs to stroke until the girl whined and whimpered against him. And the poor, lost and lonely girl had come to almost enjoy the attentions he gave her; it felt good to be touched, to be caressed as he murmured lovely things against her neck, as he told her she was important.

Doesn’t everyone want to be cherished?

Several days passed, a long string of time that very nearly had the girl worried, again like a weak creature, that she had done something wrong. But she hadn’t, had she? He was the one seeking her out, he was the guilty party, wasn’t he? No matter that she did not balk when he lowered her own hand to feel the bulge of fabric between his own legs, or that she moaned like a bought woman when he took a nipple into his mouth. It was his fault, his and his and his alone.

Rain showered outside the tower window, and with the infrequent, harsh gust of wind sometimes the water would trickle in like a mist, coating the stone room in a slippery sheen. She had learned to be mindful of where she stepped when the weather was so unfortunate as that, but she paced the uneven floor all the same that evening, wondering whether what she was letting him do was right.

As she fretted the door opened and Sansa started, not expecting his presence after such a lengthy absence. He looked himself soaked to the bone, dripping from his drenched cloak, from the wet tendrils of hair when he removed his hood to look at her properly. She could not recall a time she saw him so unkempt; he must have come directly from outside to seek her out, and she wondered just where he had been.

The girl had learned by now not to ask him what had been occupying his time since he last visited; he never gave her a proper answer. If she asked _around_ the question, however, he was often more receptive to feeding her bits of information. The girl was learning, and she felt a bit of silly pride from it. She watched him remove the cloak entirely, discarding it carelessly to the floor. It hit the stone with a damp smack, the man letting out a relived sigh, and that was when she decided to ask. “Have you been outside the castle?” Her fingers threaded into one another at her stomach, attempting to sound almost disinterested, attempting to hide the warmth of her face.

His lips tilted up in a small, knowing smirk. “For a time, yes.” He took a step near to her, his eyes taking on a hunger despite the state he was in. His boots squished, and so he kicked them off, his greyish stare on her all the while, taking note of her flush, her parted lips.

Perhaps it was his lack of visits in recent days that made her bold enough to ask, to parrot back his own words from not so long ago. “Making the castle ready for me?” She stepped backward, away from the drops of rainwater falling from his hair.

He chuckled then, an eyebrow raising as he closed the distance despite her attempt to avoid him. “Making _the world_ read for you.” Palms found her waist as he leaned close, his body radiating the chill from outside. “You will have a hundred castles; this one is simply the first.”

And why did he say such things? The girl did not want to hear them, the silvery lies he told to make her cling tighter to him. The truth; she didn’t need the fairy stories about queens and monsters to be wooed. Sansa was a trapped thing, starved for a companion; false promises meant nothing compared to a real body, a real conversation. She tried to push him away, her shift soaking in the cold and wet from him. Palms moved to his chest to press him away. “You’ll get me wet, Petyr.”

He disregarded her, instead leading her against the stone, his chest coming flush to meet hers, his mouth moving to her neck without wasting time with another breath. He spoke softly, into her warm flesh, barely pausing his kiss as he drank in the heat of her body. “Don’t you believe me, sweet girl?”

Despite herself she lifted her arms, wrapping them around him, keeping him near even as the cold now clung to her shift. “Why should I?” The man ceased attention on the slope beneath her jaw, then, bringing his face to meet her eyes as she continued. “I’m trapped, my family is dead, and you are merely an advisor. What could you possibly do for me?”

He smiled at her, kindly, as if he understood her worry. “I forget that you are so young.”

“I’m not _that_ young.” Would he be touching her now, the lewd way his hand found the curve beneath her spine, if she was that young? As if to reinforce her words she found the buttons at the top of his long garment, removing the first two fastenings.

The move surprised him, she saw that plainly for a half second before he concealed it, replacing it with what Sansa had come to learn was related to wanting a woman. Lust would have been the answer he would give her later, but she did not think to ask in that moment.

The man conceded to her, then. “No, not that young, I suppose.” He brought his hands to help her along his chest, prying open the material until his chest was exposed, the scar she’d glimpsed before now open before her. “But my girl, I have watched a thousand kingdoms rise and fall to prepare for your arrival. You may not believe me now, but you will.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Go away at once, and tell the king's daughter to come, and tell her all must be done as promised, and if she does not come, everything in the kingdom shall be ruined and destroyed, and not one stone be left standing on another."**_  
>  -The Iron Stove

Her back came to rest against the harsh hay of her makeshift mattress, his arms guiding her down, down, until he was able to slide atop her, his exposed chest damp from his discarded clothes. She could not remember moving to the bed, and she could not quite remember how he had managed to remove his shirt entirely, only that he was bare, one hand moving to grip her shift, guiding it up up and along her thighs. His trousers were coarse against her pale legs as the cold air met her skin. The girl swallowed back a gasp, unsure of what to say, what to do.

Her visitor let the shift settle around her waist, his eyes fixed on her own, and was he waiting to see just how she would react? One of her arms was curled around his neck still, keeping them close despite her racing heartbeat, her ragged breath. And perhaps he _wasn’t_ waiting; she could feel his knees along her own, parting them in order to settle between them, the smile slipping from his face, replaced with something darker, headier. 

His hand found one of hers, fingers threading into each other as he led them between her legs. That shadowed stare moved to her mouth, her neck, her heaving chest, studying her behind his own want, and the poor girl found it impossible to refuse him. She could feel her own dampness, the pooling there which she did not entirely understand. It was strange, then, how he slid their joined digits along where she pulsed, teasing her.

“Do you understand what happens between a man and a woman, precious girl?” His nose brushed hers as he asked in a rough whisper.

She had been told, perhaps, by her mother long ago. And more, she’d seen it, the way a man might lie atop a woman, or from behind like an animal. “I think so.”

He pressed her index finger below where she throbbed, inside her. It was tight, the way she clenched around her own digit, and his own finger came to join her, his hand still covering hers. “Here, Sansa.” He seemed lost, even as he sought to educate, clever, mossy-grey turning misty like the fog that would meet them in the morning. “This is how a man takes a woman.” His palm pressed and retracted, showing her own just how to slide along her walls, and the girl could not help the moan, even as there was an ache, even knowing just how wrong it was.

Soon, too soon for her to dare admit, she was writhing against their hands, chasing, begging to more faster. Somehow, this caused her to throb deeper, more painfully than when she’d let him touch her before. Somehow, the ache was sweeter.

That sweetness ended abruptly, however, as if he knew how near to her pleasure she was. He retracted their fingers, leaving her empty, and Sansa could not help the whimper that escaped her lips.

“Now, now,” Petyr reassured her, his voice rough, “I won’t forget you.” And at her apex, against her centre, where she could feel dampness coaxed by their fingers pooling, was something else. Thicker than his index, firm and warm and _pressing_. It took her a moment to realise what was happening, the confusion on her face turning quickly to fear. He noticed, of course he did, a soft _shh_ noise on his tongue. “Take a deep breath, sweet girl.”

 _Oh_ , but she did not have time to breathe, then, when he filled her, stretching her in a way she’d never known before. She cried out, surely this was not the way such things were done; _it ached!_ And was he in pain as well? The noise he made seemed to indicate it, or perhaps, on second thought, she was wrong. He let out a groan, a satisfied, needy sound, and one that was followed by her name on his lips. The girl was embarrassed that it took her so long to realise she was giving him pleasure with this dance, even as she shifted uncomfortably under him.

It was slow at first, his entire body sliding against her as he mimicked what their joined fingers had done just a moment before. And eventually, thankfully, the pain shifted, allowing some of that tension to leave her. The man saw that much; her eyes no longer wincing with hurt, her jaw not nearly as tense, and his mouth went to her neck, a murmur of approval from deep in his throat as he sucked that sensitive skin. That manoeuvre, that contact, sent a spark radiating down, and the pulsing at her centre began anew. His movements were no longer a hindrance now that she was not in pain. In fact, she found her hips lifting to seek more, for each time he filled her completely, when their pelvises met, she was able to brush against him, to aid in her own need. A quiet sigh left her and he paused, adjusting in order to pull that sound from her again, until he was giving her short, sharp thrusts aimed to please her.

Sighs turned to more wanton noises and he took her mouth, drinking in those sounds like a wine. After another moment his fingers were circling that spot above where he was positioned, in the same way he had before, drawing out those sparks, those sensations. And finally she keened, the pleasure unlike any before, a blinding sort of feeling that radiated to her toes. It was better this way, even as she remembered that ache, even as that voice in the back of her mind, pushed aside in order to _feel,_ told her she was a ruined thing now. 

Sansa had little time to relish it; he was moving again, moaning atop her, thrusting deeper, faster. From below she watched, clinging desperately, entranced by the way the man seemed so uncontrolled, so unlike the hooded figure who read to her, who befriended her. One last harsh press and he still, he slowed, the groan that left him was one that the girl would never forget.

She could feel something warm inside her, spreading as he regained his composure. He pulled out of her, then, adjusting his trousers, lifting from her to find his discarded clothing. There she stayed, an unknown wetness cooling between her legs as she pulled her shift back down, her modesty fast returning. He did not look back at her, not even after his damp cloak was donned, not even after she said his name, a question, so quietly spoken she wasn’t sure if he heard.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **It chanced that once as they were going through the forest, the wolf said, red-fox, get me something to eat, or else I will eat you yourself.**_  
>  -The Wolf and the Fox

She was cold, but her arms did not seek to reach the blanket at the edge of the bed. It was a comfort he’d provided; there had been no blankets or washbasin or anything really, not before he began his visits. The sweat, and she wasn’t sure if it was his or hers, had dried long ago, and the same went for the dampness along her thighs. Eventually the girl would have to rise, to clean herself, but the task seemed an enormous one in that moment. The rain had subsided to a gentle drizzle, lazily releasing whatever the clouds had not mercilessly spent with the storm, and she could see the sun beginning to test the horizon, begging for a chance to light the world below.

Finally, after hours of remaining still on her nest of hay, she turned, she tensed. Fury and shame mingled within her chest, battling for control of her limbs, of her mind. First, it was simply anger at him, for touching her the way he had and leaving her alone, a soiled mess without further explanation. And shame lived there also, as tears welled but she refused to let them fall. Shame for letting him press himself inside her, for moaning like a desperate woman who might be bought for a night. _A ruined thing_ , her mind accused, not for the first time since he’d left. What would her father say, were he still alive? She could almost see the disappointment, the horror in his eyes. She should have been more clever, she ought to have known better than to trust a man like him.

There were worse thoughts settling in the corners of her mind. Was that all he had wanted? The gifts, the charade of friendship, the gentleness he had shown her amongst harsh solitude, had it all been for _that_? She had heard tell of the lengths men sometimes took to bed a woman, and a few gifts did not seem so much in comparison. And an even more terrible thought: before he’d left so quickly, so cruelly, the girl had enjoyed it. She tried not to think of that part, of the throbbing between her legs, of the way she had cried out for him. It would not do to dwell on such things.

Sansa did not expect him to return that evening, or even the next, and so she was not disappointment when she spent several days in solitude. She still had an unfinished book to occupy her time, to guide her thoughts away from the feel of his fingers along her bare skin, from the way he left her without a single word. One of the mornings she dared to pull each piece of blue fabric from her hiding place, lining them up along the floor side by side. They spanned the entire length of her little cell when set in that way, and she paced beside them, back and forth, studying the enigmatic fabric bits as if they were a puzzle to be solved, and perhaps they were.

As if called forth by the blue material the door opened, and Sansa started, worried it might have been the boy King again to threaten her. He would take it all away if he saw the pieces of blue; she would have nothing. But of course it wasn’t him, it was only the advisor, in a drier state than the last time she saw him, but looking frightfully fatigued. She might have been concerned by the unkempt appearance of him; she might have been, if that quiet anger did not begin bubbling anew at his very presence. That fury took the form of a quick stride, her feet stepping carelessly over the fabric on the floor, and it took the form of her arm raising, her sensitive palm colliding with the man’s cheek the moment he pulled his hood from his face. Her chest heaved, the festering indignation leaving her in heavy breaths as she watched his reaction.

He was surprised; she could see that plainly enough, and that reaction brought her no small amount of pleasure. His own fingers found the struck spot that was fast turning pink, caressing and appraising the offended skin. Tired eyes darkened. “I would not do that again, Sansa.” No sweet name, no _little one_ or _lovely girl_ ; her name, a warning. 

The soft part of her hand tingled, and she wondered if his cheek felt the same. “Do you believe you deserve better than that?” This was new and strong, the bite her words contained.

“I won’t entertain illusions of _merit,_ but I will not be struck.” He reached out, grasping her chin between index and thumb. It was a gentle enough hold, but Sansa’s jaw tense at the touch. “Do you understand me?”

She jerked her head way, backing up a step until she was again atop the fabric, the feel of it smooth along her bare heels. “Then leave.” Sharp blue did not leave his stare, her hands curling into fists. “Go away.”

He laughed, then, and how dare he! The advisor made no move to vacate, instead slipping off his hood entirely and tossing it aside, stepping further into her prison. “I don’t think so.” He walk around her, carefully stepping over the blue with his boots until her reached her bed, pulling the blanket over the mess of hay and taking a seat upon it. “I have news. Would you hear it?”

She stilled, turned in her spot but not stepping any closer. He never gave her much information, and so should could scarcely help the budding curiosity, even with her irritation. “News?”

He man nodded. “News of the rebellion.” And his smirk then; she wanted to throttle him. He had her then, and they both knew it. His hand patted the spot next to him. “Come, sit.”

She shook her head. _No_. No, she would not. He had taken and taken, and it was her turn now to pry something from him. “Answer something first.” When he did not say a word, but an eyebrow raised, she dared to ask him the question that had been torturing her for so long. She looked down the blue material under her feet. “What are they?”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the wait! i'm toying with the idea of adding a petyr POV, so it's kind of messing with my outline.

The brightness in his eyes that had been won with her hand colliding with his face, with the promise of news, quickly fell at her own demand. He even seemed to battle with the question for a second; mulling it over in his mind in place of outright refusal. Sansa took it as progress, which was only furthered when the man sighed, eyes casting down to the blue now scattered about the tower’s cold floor. “It was a dress once, years ago.”

He stopped, but it seemed there was more to be said. The girl had learned how to be patient in the time spent in her prison; she held her tongue and waited. Her room grew almost painfully silent in his rumination, the birds having fluttered away at their harsh words. All to be heard was her own breath, and his, and the wisp of wind that occasionally gusted in through the stony opening. It was perhaps not as unpleasant as it should have been.

The man leaned down, an act that to Sansa almost seemed beneath him, until a piece of fabric found the small place between index and thumb. He regarded it carefully, thoughtfully, as if lost in a memory. “It was a beautiful thing belonging to an even more beautiful woman. It has…faded with time.”

Her brows pressed together, unsure of whether she should press or not. In the end, she could not hold her tongue for so very long, fingers wringing together in apprehension as her voice broke the silence. “And where is the woman now?”

He sighed once more, dropping the material back to the floor carelessly. “Dead and gone. The dress came into my hands after she was long passed. It was torn to several bits, you see. They could not have saved it, after…”

Sansa was torn then, uncertainty and something akin to pity mixing with the desire to know more, to shatter him into tiny pieces so that they would be the same then; broken. “And so you have taken to further shredding it, and giving it to me in tatters? For what purpose?”

He smiled at her ire, at her questions, at nothing at all as his stare lifted to meet her. “My sweet dove, I fear you will have need of them in the future.”

She shook her head. “How? Or why?” Her thoughts were a haze, the confusion surely writ clearly on her face; she had no means to guard herself from him, especially now.

“I shall leave that for you to decide.” He rose, then, quiet strides bringing him to the window, and she wondered if he had trouble meeting her eyes after what had almost been an actual answer. “I’ll be leaving soon.”

Her body turned to follow him but she did not step closer; distance would be better, even as her face flushed with recall. “Where are you going?”

Long fingers brushed along stone as he took in a calming breath. “The King will not be in the dark for very much longer; even fools accidentally make the correct assumptions if enough opportunity is given. I suspect they will cast me out.”

The girl stood firm, unwilling to move any nearer, the memory of his skin along hers lingering on the edges of her thoughts. “What have you been up to?” The accusation, the plea for more information, rang out in her tone.

He did not look at her. “This kingdom hangs now by very fine strings. I happen to wield a very sharp dagger. If Joffrey has not caught on yet, I expect he will tomorrow.”

 _So soon._ “Tomorrow?”

He nodded into the sky in front of him. “There will be an attack, one that the King is not ready for. No warning; his spies are with me, now.”

“He is your King, too,” she reminded him, the girl inside her, the one raised with loyalty and duty embedded into her bones creeping out once more. 

A quiet chuckle, and he turned finally, regarding her with a tilted mouth. “I have no king, Sansa. Nor do you. Remember that. The rebellion is strong, and there are old and forgotten ways into the castle. It will be a slow fight, with many battles, but the war will be won within the year.” He took a step nearer, and another, until he was close enough to reach out to.

“And he will lose.” It was not a question; she saw what he predicted in his gaze. Petyr Baelish expected the rebels to win. “How do you know such things?” He was close enough for it to be a whisper, and his smirk left the moment he caught the fear in her words.

“These things run in circles. It all runs in circles.” He seemed so far away then, in his grey-green eyes that appeared older than he possibly could be. It was then that he closed the distance entirely, meeting her, and she did not scare so easily then.

His hand dipped low, and for a second she thought he might touch her again. Instead, his palm rested on her stomach, fingers splaying around her navel, the warmth of him radiating outward. Clothed flesh tingled despite the barriers, as if nothing separated the press, as if his skin did not end at hers. Her lips parted as she sucked in a harsh breath, unsure of exactly what she was feeling. His other arm wrapped around her, a strange comfort, and one that felt protective, predatory. A familiar mouth found her jaw, leaving soft presses there, and she kept still, her hand caught between them at his chest neither encouraging nor pushing him away; she was not certain which she wanted.

“Stay safe.” His breath along her neck, at her ear, and she closed her eyes, relishing the heat despite herself. Something in her called to him, and it was impossible in that moment to snuff out the fire, to ignore the call.

A breath later, and he was gone. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ****  
> _Storm and rain, but it was a miserable life, and bitterly did she weep when she remembered how happy she had been in heaven.  
> _
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> -Our Lady's Child

Her eyes opened well before dawn, ears catching the sounds of yelling in the distance. It was the resonance of desperate men rushing forward in haste, the tales of a rebellion won already prepared on their tongues. From above she watched, observing the first true skirmish of war, helpless to flee, helpless to aid, defenceless in all things. Despite her position, knuckles ghosted to white against the stone perch, the first sparks of hope forming kindling in her chest. She thought of freedom, of a chance at something good.

Another thing rattled in her mind as the hours passed, sinking in like a heavy ship in the sea; those greenish eyes haunting her with a touch, with a promise. He had been right, then, about the attack. How had he known? She remembered his words, _I have no king_ , and it was clear he’d given the cruel boy ruler no warning, no cautious whisper to prepare the men with armour. The haphazard way the castle’s men were dressed, the clumsiness of their movements told her they’d had no alert for the danger. She wondered if the guards posted outside her door had been called as well. She wondered if they were still there at all, or if she was forgotten by all but the servants who brought her meals. A locked door prevented her from fleeing, and she received no response at all when she pounded on the wooden entrance never used.

Petyr must have had a key…why hadn’t he let he go?

When the fighting finally, blissfully ended, when the groans of the dying faded out unanswered into the evening air, she saw there were none left to tend to the dead. He’d said the fighting would be done before a year passed, and for the first time she had real cause to believe him. She counted the shadows of bodies until the sun left the sky and she could number them no longer, the figures in her head betraying the kingdom’s heavy losses compared to those crafty rebels. When Sansa found her bed her mouth curved into a smile. She slept well.

 

He did not come to her again. It seemed the man had been right in that as well, although she had no way to be certain he was gone. After a week she no longer expected his visits, and after a month her attention moved to her little window almost exclusively, playing spectator to the unrest below. Time passed, and the more days that swept by the closer it seemed the fires and tents crept, until she could hear the raucous laughter in the distance each evening, the dull beats of music, the methods of relieving stress in the field. If she closed her eyes she could pretend she was there, dancing around the glow of embers, the crunch of leaves between her toes. She could taste the smoke, the fresh air, the flavour of meat straight from the spit. What she would give to be there, if only for a night…

The pieces of blue ceased with his visits, and she missed them perhaps more than anything. She spent hours trying to piece them together, fingers desperate in futility as she worked to imagine what a lovely gown it must have been. On closer inspection, now that she knew just what she was looking for, she saw lingering marks of stains, scrubbed carefully into submission but there all the same. Sansa frowned when she saw them now; she thought he must have tried to hide the blood on her behalf.

 

Perhaps if she’d had a mother, a minder, any older maternal figure it might have been caught sooner. Perhaps if she’d had _anyone_  aside from the dark advisor it would not have happened at all. There was no hope for it either way, she resolved, curling into herself on the bed, ignoring the goings-on of the outside for the first time in weeks, tears falling into the hay under her cheek. She was an idiot for not realising it before, the timid slide of fingers against her cheek building to something more each meeting. Those same digits sliding between her legs, a progression, a path she'd walked blindly in the name of affection, of loneliness. She was a fool. 

Of course it was easy to ignore the ache in her abdomen after meagre meals; when had she ever been able to stomach them? The cool air often afforded her such nauseous ailments. Or perhaps the sight of blood and viscera below had finally caught up to her, she considered after a few days of the same ache. But when it did not alleviate she slowly found cause to worry. A dozen excuses, all of them valid, all of them allowing the girl to avoid rationality, to distance herself from the truth that hung heavy around her.

And surely the steady growth in the curve of her figure was not entirely normal as three more months passed. She was a girl shifting into a woman, gaining a feminine shape, but the changes were too drastic, too noticeable to be assigned to simple maturity. Still she pretended, she was so adept as it after all, at feigning contentment when all the world fell apart around her. The tunic concealed it well enough anyway, the softness of her abdomen, that she nearly forgot the changes herself.

The fighting continued, and Sansa became almost used to the battlecries of the men below, of the clash of metal on metal, metal on skin, the accumulating resistance at her feet. It was not until she peered down one day to see the blood-stained grass below that she found herself noticing an absence in her own monthly routines. It was not until that moment that the pieces, jagged and startling, were pressed together in her childish mind. She thought back to that last meeting with her clever advisor, her _lover,_ his palm resting along the slope of her stomach. Stay safe, he’d told her. Stay safe, he’d told _them_.

He had known. No matter how he knew; he’d known and he'd still abandoned her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> petyr didn't scrub the dress for her, btw. that was all for him. i think i'll write a drabble of it.  
> he /did/ cut it up for her though.


	18. Chapter 18

**[petyr]**

He’d scrubbed it with his own hands.

Even now, long years between that moment and the one he stood in now, he could feel his palms, warm with work and abrasions, stained dark. He could smell the old, coppery scent fill his nares as if no time at all had passed, the metallic taste of it as familiar as wine on his tongue. He remembered that unnerving focus, the desire to fix what had been marred, as if cleaning the garment might breathe life into the corpse that had once owned the dress. Alas, not even he could raise the dead.

He was tired, the lifetimes of schemes and quiet conquering not holding the same satisfaction as if did in days past. His thoughts veered often out of their normal branches, and instead to _her_ , to the daughter of his former love. He considered that fiery hair, the naivety he found so endearing and the uncompromising desire for survival that lurked underneath. She was a bright thing, a glowing beacon stronger than the former, and he would have her. His match, his counterpart. He would have her.

She'd been meant to wear it, the blue dress her mother once glowed in. He’d saved it for her until she grew into it, until she stood tall and full of fire and passion, the ruler she was meant to be. Of course things had changed, as they are wont to do, and the material had been torn with purpose; she would use it for another cause now, but it was no less hers.

The first of many presents, all for her, given willingly. 

And what a fool he’d become; perhaps his fondness for a pretty girl was to be his ruin. It was clear he’d made a mistake in trusting Eddard, but it was too late to do anything but plant seeds and watch them take root when he made that startling realisation. And who could have guessed Joffrey would devise such a trick, and who could have known Sansa would be the poor, innocent victim?

Well, Petyr might have known. If he had, if he did, he was certainly in no position to say a word after the deeds were done.

 

-

He scanned the forces with an approving sweep, taking in the growing numbers, the confident vibrations that seemed to thrum through the masses. Progress was evident in their increasing proximity to the castle, the balance of battles won to lost tipping swiftly in their favour. It had been easier than he’d planned; the son of the very late King Eddard was of the same breed, but lacked a great deal of his father’s foolish desire to risk victory for justice. The boy had not balked at nighttime raids or deceptions, the sorts of trickery Petyr liked best, the sorts of manoeuvres that won wars.

He knew; he’d been in similar positions a hundred times before; he knew what it took.

The man lingered in the outskirts of camp always, only delving into the clusters of tents and crowds when called by messenger. He supplied aid and advice, the golden information that advisors to the King possessed; worthy trinkets of knowledge he divulged to eager ears after they’d learned his previous information bore ripe fruit. The rebels did not trust him, not entirely anyway, but such things did not concern him. They oughtn't trust him; he would betray them all in a heartbeat when the time was advantageous.

There were, of course, whispers amongst the men, and they all came back to him in time. He did not sleep at all, they said; that he simply hovered in the darkness and watched. They thought him a wizard, a magician, or something of the sort, and perhaps he was. He had been in the past, if memory served. He had been many things. Rumours held great power, in the end; who was he to deny any idle gossip?

They begrudged him his finery, but that was also to be expected. He kept his rings, polished and glittering in the campfires’ reflections. His cloak was clean and of warm material to combat the outside cold he was so unused to. He wore soft gloves of thin fur and a pouch of gold at his side, all the possessions a man of the court might have, none of them carried by the warriors who fought each day still covered in dried blood from the last kill. Still, they had gratitude for him, for saving lives with his exchange of knowledge, even if they stayed vigilant, wary.

Good; they were smarter to be cautious. It would make it more interesting, later. After.

Before he could consider it further he stole a glance upward, greenish eyes fixing on a single tower, a long and tiny window. Still safe, judging my the faint shadow he saw cast there during the day, and somehow it had worked better than he’d planned. She was secure in her cage, and unless the idiot Boy King made a very stupid decision she would remain that way. Sansa could be a useful bargaining tool when the castle was near to being taken; she would remain alive for that reason alone. Surely if Joffrey did not see that someone close to him would. 

He smiled as he watched, the darkness concealing that grin from any who dared look in his direction. Was her stomach swollen now, rounding as his seed took hold, as new life was formed and cultivated within her lovely form? Had she discovered just what gift he had left in her care? She would be turning desperate soon, if she had any affection for her life or the one growing inside her; it would not do to bear a child in a tower, alone.

Her brother had asked after her earlier that afternoon, daring to hope she was still alive. He’d pointed to that selfsame tower. He’d promised to help her to safety.

Safety.


	19. Chapter 19

She remembered moments when her mother was with child, the way she had taken to idly caressing the growing bump, to whispering kindnesses to the tiny life inside of her. Sansa could recall doing it as well, resting her palm there to feel for movement, for any kick that might reassure her that it was indeed a baby. It had all seemed so impossible, that a child was created in such a way. Even so, it had been a joyful thing to welcome a sibling into the world when she saw that it was true enough.

His hand had moved to her stomach once as well, the very last time he had visited her. It had been a goodbye, she was certain, and she now knew just what had been done. Several months ago fingers had splayed where the shift she wore now betrayed evidence of gravidity, and she could not help but mirror those remembered movements as she thought of him. Where was he? What had he done? She wanted to hate him, she wanted to go back to their first meeting and tell him to leave and never return. She wanted a last kiss, a final embrace, something, _anything._

It was then, thinking of him, that she felt that first, tiny flutter of movement. She sunk back onto the hay bed, willing tears of apprehension to leave her, choosing joy instead, if only for a moment.

 

The girl stood by the window, her hand placed against the swell, watching the camp below. They were at the very edges of the line of trees then, so very close to the castle and so very close to her. It would end soon, judging by their proximity, by the dwindling numbers of the castle’s forces. At night sometimes she would see forms from the keep fleeing across the battlefield in the cover of shadows, begging for mercy, begging to join their cause. Sansa did not know what her brother did with those men.

What she did know: she must act soon if she wanted to escape unharmed.

There was a strange quiet on the field the dawn before it was all done, as if the earth itself was taking a deep, preparatory breath for what was to come. Grey clouds hung overhead in place of sun, and she wondered if they would stay for after, waiting to cleanse the blood from soft ground. Sleep came late for her that night, the worry in her heart not only for herself now, but for her child.

She held no hope that she would be saved if King Joffrey was as terrible as she remembered him to be. His dying order would be her execution, if only to strike a final blow to her allies, to her brother. No, she must see to her own way out, and as she pondered an idea struck her, eyes bright as she considered with just what she must do. Immediately she set to work, prying the fabric shreds out of their hiding places and tossing them into a pile on the floor. She wondered if this had been his plan when he gave her each gift of blue, she wondered if he had known all along what events were to pass. 

Her fingers toiled, taking short breaks when she could use them no longer, joints aching and barely able to curl into loose fists. The blue bits of fabric were sturdy but easy to manipulate and tie, but she fumbled with them in her haste. The girl was not sure exactly how soon she might need it finished before it was too late.

There was no meal brought to her that day, for the first time since she was been placed in the tower. That brought her more fear than the men below. It meant every single guard was needed for battle; it meant they were standing of very weak legs, if they were standing at all. Sansa knew she should have felt pleased, but dread crept along the edges of the mind; escape would not be so simple, she had learned that much from experience.

Night approached, and she was nearly done; it could be finished tomorrow as soon as she had light enough to knot by in the morning. They would not attack at night, would they? She had time, she was certain, if only a little of it.

She set the pieces of blue on the bed just as the battle began in earnest, and made her way once more to watch the little fires and songs of the warriors below. But there were no fires, no songs or sounds of parties, and it was then she realised the plan. The screams came soon after, panicked, dying groans and the quick clash of blades. The battle was started, her brother and his forces sneaking to the castle at night, and she had run out of time.

 

It was then, after two years of isolation and imprisonment, that the king decided to return to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little prep chapter before the end:)


	20. Chapter 20

Dawn had not yet broken along the horizon when the door opened. It was not the soft coercion of wood against stone that singled a certain advisor, but a loud banging that startled her immediately into waking. She did not need the light of the sun to see just who had made a decision to visit; his gait, the unworthy confidence in his posture, gave it away before her mind could process just what it meant. Another form stood behind him, surely a guard, keeping his distance in the way those who served this particular king were used to.

“Still alive.” He did sound a little disappointed, but Sansa had no defence for the surprise of his entrance. Her arms trembled, body tense and still, her eyes surely wide in worry. “Well, get up you stupid creature. Is that how you greet your King?”

There was nothing to do then but oblige while the miserable truth of it washed over her; she had missed her chance to escape, missed the only way out that did not end her in demise. Her body lifted from the bed, unsteady even as she fought to hide her fear, and she lowered into genuflection. From the window she could hear the trickle of rain against the sill. There would be no warm sun, then, to greet her on her last morning.

Falling to her knees before him appeared to have helped calm his mood. “Stand.” He ordered next, and when she obeyed him the curl of his lips turned to one she knew very well. It was the grin he gave when he was planning something truly horrible. “Did you know your brother is trying to take my castle?”  She could not find the words, and so her head shook in response. It was not what he wanted, it seemed; he reached for her, gripped her jaw with his fingers, keeping her gaze on him. “I wonder if he’ll reconsider when he sees your rotting corpse hanging from the gate. What do you think?”

Sansa had tried to forget her time spent with the boy King, but she remembered them in that moment; the quiet deferrals, the submission, the answers he liked better than contradiction.” “I don’t know, my lord.” Her eyes dropped, and she could think of nothing save survival, hers and the child inside her.

“What’s this?” His eyes fell to match her own, as if he was just noticing the swell of her stomach for the first time, and perhaps he was. She had found his anger was often focused to a sharpened point, but quick to shift. He was furious because he was losing a war, and suddenly he had a new bundle of kindling to strike his ire against. “Your cunt was mine, you idiot thing. Mine to have. Who was it? A servant? How did they get to you?”

The questions did not cease, and she did not answer; it wouldn’t matter anyway, whether or not she gave him a name. Knuckles were white against her sides, muscles along her arms prepared to defend herself if he tried to harm her at the fragile place below her ribs.

He turned to the guard that had fallen back to the doorway, not letting go of her. The man watched the scene with a sick sort of satisfaction, and of course he kept the most awful of his armoured servants so close to him. “Fetch me my bow; it was in my rooms when last I checked.”

The man faltered for half a second, his smile dropping. “My Lord?”

King Joffrey chuckled at that, his laugh a grating thing to Sansa’s ears. He grabbed her throat, suddenly, painfully, and the girl half chokes on her breath as her hands come to cling to his wrist. “Are you worried now? See? The little whore is no threat to me.” Another pause and the boy snaps at him. “Go!”

That seemed to be enough to appease the guard, and even though she is distracted, her breath shallow and gasping, she did not miss the clunk of metal as the man descended the spiral stairway.

Oh, and his attention is hers entirely then. She winced as he let her go, her legs giving out as one arm braced the bed behind her. The girl’s vision swam, her head and neck ached terribly, but she remembered what she had been working on just before he arrived, and hope sparked anew.

Joffrey does not notice. The boy is preoccupied with his own planning. “I think I’ll kill that thing inside of you first. Get it with a nice, sharp arrow. I’ll leave it in you while I fuck you, and maybe, if you’re very good for me, I’ll let you see your brother before I take your head.”

The way the words left his mouth was strange, as if he truly thought such a thing would be a kindness. Sansa could remembered so clearly then when she wanted this boy to be her husband. Perhaps she deserved this fate for her naivety.

But _no_ , no she does not. And her child does not deserve it, either. His hands pushed her back to the bed, and it was easier than she expected to find the material with her free fingers, to take the makeshift rope tied from an old dress and wrap it around his neck. He fought, he kicked, but she is patient and calm where he is feral, and in the end his face was strained and purple and no air will ever find his lungs again.

She watched him for long moments after, as if waiting for him to rise from the dead. She took a deep breath where he had none, and then she moved quickly. Sansa wasn’t finished with her blue fabric, but it would have to do; she could not afford another second with the dead king in her tower.

The knot was easy to fit against the hay cot’s post, and from there it was simple to toss the long line of tied blue pieces out the window. It was a sturdy rope, she knew, and the fear of falling from it was nothing compared to the terror of meeting the guard returned with a bow.

At the end it was not quite long enough, and the girl paused; she would have to jump the rest of the way down. A yell above was what propelled her, in the end, as the guard peered down to find her nearly entirely escaped. A jump, and she ran, the arrows missing her as she darted to and fro in the cover of night.

The girl slid in the mud, careful of the bodies strewn across the battlefield, careful of her tunic. She had not run in so long, not since she was a girl, and the muscles she needed ached at the unfamiliar motions. Still, she moved, one arm wrapped around her stomach while the other remained outstretched for balance. The drops of water were sweet on her face, cleansing her, and the smile she found was real.

When she finally made it to the edge of the forest her knees and palms fell to the soft, muddy earth. The rain fell around her, on her, and the girl closed her eyes, catching her heaving breath. She was free, free then and in that moment it did not matter if she died in the next; she had tasted the world outside of her prison, she had made it.

And perhaps she would die next; a step and then another in front of her, and when she opened her eyes her vision was obstructed by dark brown boots a foot away from her nose. Blue eyes looked up in a hopeless panic until she saw the cloak.

A ringed hand extended out to her, smiling green eyes beckoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it:) thank you so much for reading!  
> (you all must know by now how much i love my ambiguous endings)
> 
> any questions or prompts i will certainly try to get to, but as i'm not using tumblr at the moment it would be easier to put them here please!


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